


After the Fight

by alwayswhenleastexpected



Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, i tried so hard, spideypool july secret santa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-20
Updated: 2014-07-20
Packaged: 2018-02-09 17:31:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1991613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alwayswhenleastexpected/pseuds/alwayswhenleastexpected
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter and Wade fought through this together, until they couldn't anymore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	After the Fight

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Miss_L](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miss_L/gifts).



> I need more practice writing angst *sigh
> 
> This is my july secret santa gift for Miss_L/livinlalidaloki, and it's a day late, so I'm really sorry about that!
> 
> PS Friendly reminder that I suck at endings

Wade’s frying pan came swinging down on an infected’s head with a wild crack, sending it to its knees. “This is just like playing Left 4 Dead!” he yelled, twirling his frying pan in one hand and reaching for his gun with the other. The infected were filing into the warehouse and closing in on them, drawn by gunshots and Wade’s yelling, and Peter cursed repeatedly as one infected dropped and was quickly replaced by another.

“We need to get out of here, Wade,” shouted Peter over the gunshots and moaning of the undead. 

They were backed against a wall, right next to a window which was now their only option of escape. Peter didn’t enjoy the prospect of jumping and risking a broken bone, but at this point it was better than being eaten alive by the infected.

“The window, Wade! The window!” 

Wade glanced over, and with an angry grunt he swung his frying pan at the window. The sound of it shattering deafened Peter for a full five seconds. “Go,” Wade said to him. “Ladies first.” 

Peter shot one more infected, then made his way to the window. The ground wasn’t as far away as it could have been, but he still swallowed nervously, gauging the way to jump and minimize damage.

“Dammit Peter,” muttered Wade, shoving Peter into the open air before he realized what was happening.

He hit the ground hard and rolled, groaning softly. Scrambling for his gun, he looked up and waited for Wade, who followed him a short moment after, hitting the ground with a loud thump.

“Aw fuck, I left my frying pan!” 

Peter shook his head, his body aching but for the most part unharmed. “You still got your gun?”

Wade stood up, shaking out his arms. “Yeah. Running low on ammo, though.” 

“Okay.” Peter remained lying in the ground, though he knew they had to keep moving, and keep moving fast. His felt as though his lungs were constantly burning from lack of air he didn’t have time to catch, ever.

“Hey, hey,” murmured Wade next to him. “Come on, Peter. We made it. We’ll make it alright. Get up. We still haven’t found my cheezy puffs yet.” 

“You and your fucking cheezy puffs,” sighed Peter. He let Wade grab his arm and haul him to his feet. As he straightened himself, he caught sight of Wade’s torn and bloody sleeve, and froze. 

“Wade,” he hissed.

“Hm?” Wade didn’t look up from reloading his gun.

“Did you…” Peter swallowed. “Are you hurt?” He gestured at Wade’s arm.

“No, I didn’t get… oh.” 

Wade’s sleeve fell back and for a moment they both simply stared at the wound; through the blood they saw the distinct marks of human teeth, bruised and swollen and leaking. Neither of them said anything, but Peter already felt panic and betrayal climbing up his throat like bile. 

“I didn’t even feel it,” said Wade, as though it would negate the reality of having been bitten. 

“Fuck,” Peter whispered. 

“Peter,” Wade said lowly, pushing his sleeve back to his wrist. “Look, it’s gonna be fine, I don’t feel funny at all—maybe that guy wasn’t contagious, or, or—”

But Peter was already starting to sob; he had done this first to Harry and MJ, and then Gwen, and now Wade—he had watched them make their mistakes and then he had to kill them before they killed him, and now he had to kill Wade too. 

There wasn’t any time. The infected were behind them, surely drawn by their voices again. They had to keep moving until Wade couldn’t go any further. 

Peter wasn’t sure if he could make it any further after that, either. 

“Let’s move,” he said, staring at Wade through the tears that were threatening to spill. “Let’s go, as far as we can.” 

“And then?” Wade asked. 

“I just—I don’t know.” Peter couldn’t look at hurt expression on Wade’s face anymore, so he turned to walk, resisting the urge to scream. “Find a place with water and maybe food. Wait for you to turn so I can fucking shoot you.” 

Wade gave a hollow laugh. “That sounds great, Peter—except for that last part.” 

“There’s nothing else we can DO!” Peter’s loud voice echoed and he immediately regretted shouting. The wind was carrying the sounds of the undead, their empty moans and shuffling steps making Peter grit his teeth. “Just face it, Wade. You’re dead.” 

Wade didn’t reply. Peter continued on, hearing Wade fall into step behind him a few seconds later.

\--

They had been walking for a while; they were well clear of the town and the sun was finally setting when Wade spoke. “I don’t get why you’re so upset. It’s not like you’re the one that’s gonna turn into a mindless brain-muncher.” 

The air was quieter and less putrid here, and Peter finally felt safe enough to round on Wade. “I’m upset because you’re reckless. I’m upset that I’m gonna have to put a bullet through your head, and then I’m gonna be alone.” He stopped talking when his breath came out shaky. 

He watched while Wade glanced down at the wound in his arm. “It does kinda hurt now,” said Wade quietly. “How long do you think I got left?” 

“I don’t know,” Peter replied. “Look, let’s crash over in that field. We’ll hear them coming through the corn.” 

It was completely when they were huddled against the rotted wood of an old shack, both exhausted but restless. 

Wade had not been his usual talkative self; he was pale, and sweaty from both exhaustion and whatever the infection was doing to his body. Peter’s eyes were on Wade’s hand, which was clutching his wounded arm in a white-knuckled grip.

“Are you okay, Wade?” Peter whispered.

“Never felt better,” was the strained reply. 

Peter scooted closer, and let his hand rest over Wade’s. “I won’t let you turn into one of those things, Wade,” he said. “Not if you don’t want to.”

“That’s a shame, because I was beginning to think you’d taste pretty good.”

Peter slapped him, and Wade smiled. “I never got my fucking cheezy puffs,” he said weakly.

“I’m sorry about that.” Peter sighed and leaned forward, resting his head against Wade’s shoulder. “I’m so sorry.” 

When the sun rose and Wade did not wake up, Peter took his bag and his guns and stood up.

He raised the gun in front of Wade’s face but could not bear to pull the trigger, so instead he began walking until he could no longer see the corn field where he had left Wade. At a collapsed bridge he stopped and stood knee-deep in the water, too filthy to see his own reflection. Finally, he mustered the courage to bring the gun to his own head.


End file.
